Whatever Remains
by Jennyyu73
Summary: The day Molly had a close brush with death was the day that she decided life has a greater purpose than pointlessly pining away after an emotionless consulting detective. Which happened to be when the detective in mind truly realised how much of his life she accounts for and how pointless it would be without her. Inspiration from "Love Stories and Tournament of Lies" by Nocturnias
1. Unexpected Happenings

**A/N This is being re-updated with the line breaks visible this time, because I had used asterisks before, and they didn't show up correctly. **

Bad days don't often happen to Molly Hooper. That is, until she had met Sherlock Holmes who always seemed to put her right on the edge of wanting to kiss him and wanting to slap him.

This afternoon., he had barged in with John right at his heels, demanding an appendix for an "important experiment". She had given it to him, as she had usually done, per their usual routine, but he rushed off this time without any further acknowledgement, which was less than usual.

John smiled apologetically at her, as if to say, "You know how he is."

Molly heaved an exasperated sigh and went back to examining the body of a homicide victim. Shot in the chest. Last one of the day, thankfully.

After filing some paperwork after taking inventory and retrieving the body parts (which took quite a while, actually), she started to clean up her work station and got ready to leave for the day.

Interrupting a second time, Sherlock bursted into the room, without John this time, and asked for another appendix.

"I just gave you one a few hours ago!" Molly frowned.

"Slight miscalculation in the data," he replied smoothly. "Need another test subject."

"Look, sorry, Sherlock, but my shift is over and I was just about to go back to my flat. Ask one of the night-shift workers or something," Molly said and put on her coat.

"The night-shift people aren't that fond of me."

"Can't imagine why," she murmured and recalled what Mary Morstan, one of her coworkers and friends, had told her after the whole incident with the big fight between Sherlock and one of the night pathologists. There were very colourful exchanges, and the pathologist had quit following the event.

"Please?" Sherlock drew out the puppy-face card.

"I've pulled enough strings today to get you the first one," Molly held her ground. She wasn't about to be reduced to be a blithering idiot just because he looked nice today. Especially nice, actually... she shook off that feeling. "Sorry, no can do."

"Please?" He repeated. "Oh, before I forget, John and I would like to cordially invite you to our flat for Christmas. There's going to be a party. You can bring Mary along, too. I think John fancies her."

After a moment of hesitation, she answered, "Fine, I suppose."

"Fantastic," he pulled a smile. "I have to get going. Drop the organ off at Baker Street, would you? As soon as you can." He flew out the door, hair bouncing, coat billowing.

"I was talking about the part..." Molly trailed off.

She heaved another sigh and walked off to try to retrieve the organ without anyone finding out. It was technically against hospital procedures, but it doesn't hurt anyone, right? And Sherlock's experiments were actually quite interesting.

There were a few close calls with a few janitors walking around the halls and a doctor, but Molly managed to get ahold of the requested organ without making a scene.

It was only seven-thirty when she finished, but the sky outside was already a deep, deep indigo, all thanks to the shortened days of December. A thin blanket of snow dusted the ground outside.

Molly grunted as she stuffed a plastic bag with Sherlock's appendix and prepared to leave for the second time, except this occasion, she had to take a slight detour by cab over to his flat.

After three light knocks, the door to 221B Baker Street opened and Sherlock came into view, standing at the entrance. He took the bag from her, "Ah, thank you, Molly."

John was sitting on the couch, tapping away at his laptop (probably updating his blog) when he glanced up at her, "Oh, hey, Molly. Would you like to come inside? We have some tea, or coffee, if you'd prefer that instead."

Before she had the opportunity to answer, Sherlock interrupted, "Actually, I'm a bit busy right now and I need to concentrate. A new case from Lestrade, you see." he started closing the door.

"Oh," Molly said in a small voice, slightly affronted. "That's fine. I should go now, anyways."

"Sherlock, that was rude," John told him after he had completely shut the door.

"No it wasn't," Sherlock frowned as he walked over to his lab table located in the kitchen. "I even thanked her."

"And then you shut the door in her face without even inviting her inside or offering her any type of beverage. That certainly wasn't very polite, considering she gone to so much trouble to get you a second organ in one day."

"Couldn't offer her a beverage since you had done it yourself so enthusiastically," Sherlock scowled. "And besides, she would've required paying attention to, and I'm right in the middle of an important experiment. You should probably stop talking now, too."

"Sherlock..."

"It was for her safety, too. There might be some health-compromising gases released from this chemical reaction," he continued and placed a drop of something onto a tissue sample. There were some bubbling and fizzing on the Petri dish.

"What about my health? You aren't concerned about that?" John swiveled around and looked at Sherlock with an annoyed face.

"I'm sure you're strong enough to withstand it, soldier," Sherlock replied quite sarcastically.

* * *

There was a sudden gust of freezing wind as Molly tried to wave down a cab, but unfortunately, another person reached it first. She groaned and looked around for another, but Baker Street was utterly deserted. Everyone was too discouraged by the cold weather to even attempt to go outside.

Molly finally decided to suck it up and walk back to her flat– which is about twenty minutes away. Not too bad.

About ten minutes in, it started snowing again, so she clutched her coat tighter and tried her best to stay relatively warm, but the sneaky chill snuck in and she stifled a shiver.

She swore and picked up her pace. The sky was turning even darker.

There was a small alleyway that cuts in between two buildings that shortened Molly's walk by about three minutes, and being desperate as she was to escape the cold weather outside, she took the shortcut.

A few steps into the little road, there came a gradual echo of a pair of shoes that weren't hers. Just quiet enough for it to be concealed out on the open streets, but was audible in the confined space now.

"Hello~ oh," Molly's voice went up to a shrill ringing as she saw a black-clad woman pointing a pistol at her chest.

"Don't – don't move," the woman seemed almost as nervous and unsure as she was.

"Miss?" Molly ventured tentatively. "Do you need anything? I'm sure we don't need to shoot. It'll bring a great deal of complications for both of us."

"What I need," the woman said with gritted teeth, "Is your death. So I can prove myself to – to the boss. This, this is a test."

"The... boss?"

"Moriarty!" she shouted as a look of insanity lit up her eyes.

A shiver ran down Molly's spine, and not from the freezing weather this time. Moriarty. Jim Moriarty from IT, who turned out to be one of the most psychotic criminals in the world. She felt slightly dizzy.

"If I don't kill you," the woman whispered. "He'll kill me."

"Look, look, let's all examine this situation a bit more more logically." Molly tried her best to channel that calmness and charisma that Sherlock always seemed to possess. "Let's just... talk about it."

"There's nothing to say!"

Now that Molly calmed down enough to get a better look at her potential assailant, she realized that she was young. A girl, practically, who seemed to be about eighteen. Eighteen.

Molly held up her hands, as if to say that she means no harm, and took a tiny step towards the girl. Lying through her teeth, she said, "I – I can talk to Jim for you, maybe put a good word in..."

"Liar!" the girl shouted, muscles tensing.

Realizing what was about to ahppen, Molly desperately lunged forward and made a reach for the gun. Her fingers brushed against it when the girl pulled the trigger.

Slightly knocked off kilter by her grab, the bullets meant for her heart whizzed and lodged itself in Molly's shoulder.

"Hey!" Someone on the streets shouted, alarmed by the explosion sound. Footsteps grew louder as the person ran towards the alley.

The girl took in the situation – Molly clutching her wound on the ground, whimpering and bleeding out, and a tall figure approaching – and made a decision.

Before running off, she pointed the gun at Molly's chest and fired one last shot.

**A/N: The time frame of this story is after The Hounds of Baskerville and replaces The Reichenbach Fall.**


	2. Rudeness is a Virtue

John Watson shot up from his chair. "Say that again, Mycroft?"

"I trust that you heard it clearly the first time and is just expressing your surprise at the current moment," it wasn't very often that Mycroft Holmes makes a house call, and when he does, something is usually horribly wrong.

"Molly. Got shot. Her," John whispered in disbelief, mind still digesting the information at hand.

"Yes, by someone whom we are sure have some form of connection to Moriarty," Mycroft confirmed.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because Moriarty had the good sense to get in touch with me and informed me of his involvement," he fiddled with his umbrella. "A passerby who heard the gunshot called the police and rode with Molly to St. Barts."

"Oh, thank goodness. Is she alright now?" John inquired.

"Her vitals are stable and the hospital informed me that she had just woken up, but she needs to stay at the hospital for a few more days, as her physical state is rather weak. She asked for you and Sherlock to come, which, where is my dear brother?"

"He went over to Scotland Yard a while ago. I'll call him," John pulled out his phone and dialed Sherlock's number. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. "He's not answering."

"We'll go without him."

Following Mycroft downstairs, they entered a black vehicle that has been waiting. Anthea was sitting in the back, texting.

The driver started the engine.

* * *

"John. Mycroft," Molly greeted them, slightly drowsy from the morphine they gave her. She then gestured to the unfamiliar man sitting in the corner of the room, "This is Benedict. He's the one who found me."

John shook hands with him, "Thank goodness you were there."

Benedict nodded.

"Where's Sherlock?" Molly noticed.

"I don't know," John answered. "He didn't pick up any of my calls or the text I sent him."

A slight wave of disappointment washed over her, but she plowed ahead, looking at the bigger picture, "Did you find the girl? Did you find Moriarty?"

"No, Miss Hooper. We have very little information on you assailant, and Moriarty... well, he's a very special case," Mycroft replied.

"The girl– she said Moriarty would kill her if I didn't die. She was so young, too young..." Molly whispered. "I hope Moriarty spared her life."

"It's your safety we need to be worried about," John said.

"Yes, John is correct. There has to be a reason or a motive for why he came after you, and there's no guarantee that he won't do it again," Mycroft stated. "After being released from St. Barts, I would highly recommend you to not go back to your flat for an undetermined amount of time."

"Where would I live then?" Molly frowned.

"You can stay at our flat," John suggested. "There's an extra room that's not been used much except for storing some of Sherlock's equipment and things."

Molly was unsure, "Would he be okay with it? Sherlock doesn't like people moving his stuff around. And Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mrs. Hudson would be fine with it. And as for Sherlock," John shrugged. "He's not getting much of a say in this. I mean, he's not even here, didn't even bother to answer his phone."

She fell silent, but confirmed with a small nod.

Benedict, who had been quiet throughout this whole exchange, spoke up, "I should leave now. Get some food, maybe. Haven't eaten breakfast yet. So if you'll excuse me..."

"Actually, I have a few questions to ask you," Mycroft said and led him outside, leaving MOlly and John alone in the room.

"Thanks, you know, for the offer," she said.

"It's no problem, really," John smiled pleasantly and was surprised by a text alert.

**Which room in St. Barts?**

**-SH**

John tapped a response.

**H3. How did you know I was in St. Barts?**

**-JW**

**Mycroft's car is outside**

**-SH**

"Sherlock's coming up," John informed Molly, and sure enough, five minutes later, he strolled into the room.

"Why was I not informed of this earlier?" he demanded.

"You didn't pick up your phone," John protested. "Where were you? Going to Scotland Yard certainly doesn't take this long."

He waved it off, "Not important. Molly, tell me exactly what happened, don't leave out anything. We need to find Moriarty as soon as possible to lessen the chance of him attempting another assassination. So you can resume your pathology position. Others don't seem to be as compliant as you are in the hospital."

Molly gaped at his, and anger surged around her mind, offended that it was only to his advantage that he's talking to her at all.

John seemed just as shocked at his rashness, "Excuse us for a few seconds." He pulled Sherlock out the door and hissed, "What the hell are you thinking?"

"What? Shouldn't she be glad I spoke highly of her job performance?"

"Sherlock, no. You basically said she was a pushover and you're only doing this because you get something out of it. That's not very nice, at an understatement."

"Well, I can't help it if she perceived it that way," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"Apologise to her," John held his gaze, dead serious.

"Fine," Sherlock scowled. He stalked back into the room and told Molly in a very stiff voice, "I apologise, since there was a margin for misinterpretation of my words and intentions. They are in no way meant to be condescending."

"Did John inform you of my future residence in 221B Baker Street after I'm released?" Molly said smugly in an attempt to get back at him.

Sherlock whipped around and glared at John, "Is that so?"

"It is so, and you'll have to get used to it. It's for her own protection," John retorted. "And you can't continue to leave all your stuff on the floor and the couch whenever you feel like it."

"Well, if Molly wants to be of any help, since she's the one intruding on our flat, she can be assigned the job of cleaning up, so I see no reason to cease my routines," Sherlock growled, a bit pissed.

Molly sat up swiftly with an obvious look of fury in her eyes and snapped, "You know what, Sherlock? Fuck you. Do you think anyone really want to share a flat with you? I really thought that you were my friend and we're past all this, but as your actions indicate, clearly not. So until Moriarty is found, we'll just both have to suck it up, and I'm NOT going to be your maid!"

Sherlock and John were both taken aback by her tirade, not expecting all that from a usually-sweet Molly.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, eyes softening, although there was still a trace of indignation left.

Molly shook her head, "Forget it."

Benedict came in at that moment carrying two cups of coffee, "Molly, I thought you might want some– oh hi."

"Ben, this is Sherlock, and you've already met John," Molly introduced.

"Nice to meetcha," Ben gave Molly one of the coffees and then extended a hand towards Sherlock.

He stared at it with a stony expression, not moving.

"I guess you're not the hand-shaking type of bloke, huh?" Ben said lightheartedly and stuck his hands back in his pockets. "You meet all kinds of people in my profession."

"Your profession?" John questioned.

"Clearly a travel blogger. Owns a website, I presume?" Sherlock sneered. "Probably traveled to London on visit, but liked it so much that you decided to stay permanently."

"How did you know?" Ben said the same moment John said, "Here we go again."

"Oh, please, as if it was that hard to see. You obviously didn't get your tan lines from London in this weather, so you moved here recently. It's very faint, but still visible. Your slight accent is a mixture of French, American, and maybe Scottish? You traveled abroad, then."

"And what about the blogging bit?"

"Your wrist. The crook of it shows you're handy with a keyboard, and types often, too. Your eyes, they blink less often than normal, shows you stare into a computer screen quite a lot."

Been grinned, "Spot on! That was really cool."

"Cool?" Sherlock looked disgusted by the choice of adjective. With a huff, he strided out the door, nose turned up in the air.

"Sherlock!" John shouted and chased after him after saying sorry to Ben for his rather rude exit. Molly frowned. "You have to stop acting like a git all the time! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were acting jealous."

"Jealous?" The word tasted tart on his tongue. "Of whom?"

"I don't know, Ben?"

"I have better things to do than be jealous of a man with limited brain cells such as him," Sherlock picked up his pace. "Like this Moriarty case."

"So you're taking it?"

"Of course I am. It's an eight at the very least. Although there is a lack of evidence and clues to go off on."

"Actually," John said, looking at a text he just received from Mycroft. "Your brother said that they just found a small engraving of a cell-phone number on the bullets."


	3. A Delightful Little Game

"Benedict, Benedict..." Sherlock muttered the name under his breath as he typed furiously on his laptop.

"What are you doing? You should be investigating Moriarty and the phone number that Mycroft found, not going off about a man who happened to save Molly's life," John exclaimed.

Ignoring him, Sherlock continued tapping away until he's found the correct webpage, "Got it! You'd be surprised at how many people named Benedict have travel blogs, John."

"Is that what you're going to waste the entire afternoon on?"

"Look at the title! It's just 'Ben's Travel Blog'. How bloody unoriginal is that?" he criticized. "Ugh, and look at those missing commas and he even misspelled 'Azerbaijan' for heaven's sake!"

"He's a nice guy."

Sherlock closed his laptop lid and shoved it away with a look of contempt, "What does Molly see in him?"

"He saved her from bleeding to death," John said impatiently. "You shouldn't be jealous. They're just friends."

"'Jealous' is such an asinine word," Sherlock propped his feet up onto the coffee table and brought his hands together. "And clearly, he wants to be more than that. Molly tends to have that effect on men, whether she realises or not. Should've seen that look on his face. The pathetic thing is that she has low enough standards to actually consent to dating him."

"He can do whatever he wants to," John rolled his eyes. "And please don't say that to Molly's face because I'm worried she might punch you. Then, on the second hand, please do say that."

"Hilarious."

"Now stop wasting time stalking a random man. Mycroft told you to find out as much as you can about the number."

"Hand me my phone," Sherlock extended his hands.

With a sigh, John retrieved the cell from the lab table and handed it to him, "What are you going to do?"

"Call the number," Sherlock punched in the digits and held it up to his ears.

"Wait... are you insane? This is Moriarty we're talking about here. You can't just call him up and say 'hi Jim, it's been a while.'"

"If he wanted to cause harm with that number or by any other method, he would've done it already. What he wants is for me to contact him," there was a click as someone on the receiving end picked up.

"Long time no chat, Sherlock!" A overly cheery voice sang.

"Moriarty."  
"Bingo!" he answered, drawing out the last syllable. "Now, I am going to ask you to remove the presence of Dr. Watson from this building so the grown-ups can have a serious conversation. Please keep in mind I can see you right now, so don't attempt any tricks."

"John, leave Baker Street and go... woo Mary Morstan or something– yes, I know you have 'a thing for her', it's not hard to see, now go!"

"That's Moriarty isn't it? What's he sayi–"

"Just do as I ask," Sherlock interrupted. "Please. And don't come back until I give you a call."

"Okay, fine, but you are going to hear about this when I come back. And if you leave anything out, I will shank you," John grabbed his coat and stepped out the door with a huff.

"Good, good," Moriarty cooed. "Now tell me, Sherlock, what did you think of our game before with Carl Powers and the painting? Did you enjoy that?"

"I've played better, to be honest," he replied stiffly.

"Oh, don't be a killjoy, Mr. Holmes. But hear me out– how about we play something better this time? My treat. A new, delightful little game."

"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Can I opt out?"

"Don't be like that. But the answer is no, you must participate... unless you want the entire city of London to burn. You know, I've acquired several bombs in the recent few weeks..."

"Ah, blackmailing," Sherlock said. "The oldest trick in the book."

"And the best. Works every time," Moriarty quipped, and Sherlock could almost see him grinning. The madman continued, "Let's hear the rules, shall we?"

"Yes, of course."  
"You are presented with two options to choose from. One is that every week, I will be concealed in a different location from London, location unknown to virtually no one else, and every week, someone in the city will be murdered. Purposefully, by one of my people, of course. On the victim will be a clue left that might lead you to my location. If you're too late, someone else dies the next week and the game is reset. But I have to warn you, I am a master at hiding, and the clues might even be beyond you, Sherlock."

"Option two?"

"I will hire several highly skilled snipers out to kill John, Molly, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson– everyone you care about– and it is up to you to protect them and assure their safety."

"Why would you hire the first assassin to kill MOlly? If she had died, then it would have messed with your plan."

"Oh please," Moriarty scoffed. "I knew the girl didn't have the guts to kill your little pathologist. Her eyes had fear in them. Fear and sentiment, and you know what that means."

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," Sherlock recited the phrase he spoke so often of.

"And you know the saddest part? You're beginning to feel sentiment, like the rest of them, the ordinary people. I've seen how you look at that mousy little Miss Hooper when you think she's not looking."

"I've done nothing like that," he retorted.

"Oh don't deny it, that just makes me ship you two even more!"

"'Ship'?"

Moriarty ignored the question and went on, "You'll have 8 hours to decide. Call me back, maybe? Oh, by the way, don't even bother to try to trace this number, because it can't be done. I've made sure of that. And I'm pretty sure neither John or anyone else needs to hear about our conversation. Ciao!"

The line went dead.

Sherlock sat down on the couch and retreated into his mind palace.

* * *

Molly Hooper was, to say the least, outraged at Sherlock's blatant put-down of her and Ben and basically every breathing being besides himself.

She was bored out of her mind for the past day, doing nothing more at the hospital than sleep, eat, and occasionally watching crappy shows on the telly. There was literally little else to engage in within the confines of St. Barts.

This tended to be a good time to try to come to terms with one's feelings.

No matter what she thought of, it always seemed to drift back to the consulting detective. Nothing helped, either, not food, books, or even the reports of scandalous relationships between celebrities on the telly.

She really needed to get a life. No, actually, that wasn't right, exactly.

After two years of being in love– yes, love. Molly can admit that much to herself– with Sherlock, but he was as much of an arse as anyone could be.

No matter what she did, how she dressed, or how much she helped him, he brushed it off with a superficial thanks. He wasn't blind, he's anything but, and Molly was sure he knew about her affections, which made everything ten times worse.

Had she died yesterday, at the hands of the bullet, then she would've wasted so much of her time pining after a man who didn't even remotely return the favour.

Maybe she was right, that sentiment really was distracting and time consuming, which is why she needs to move forth from it all.

It was time to stop longing after Sherlock.

The unfortunate thing was that feelings don't tend to disappear overnight, and Molly needed help from Sherlock's haters.

Picking up her phone, she dialed Donovan's number.

* * *

The trip through Sherlock's mind palace hasn't been particularly helpful, which was not common. In fact, it has never happened.

Popping in at random intervals, which he seemed to have no control over, which also seemed to never have happened, were projections of a certain pathologist. Also intruding were John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.

Molly has been showing up more frequently, ever since the incident, and he finds it to be the utmost frustrating. Not having control of his own thoughts frightens him, quite a lot.

It was as if his own mind is an orchestra and someone else is doing the conducting.

Yes, Molly Hooper is a very interesting subject.

She has been in love with him for almost two years, that part was obvious, yet his own thoughts towards her had remained professional. That is, until recently.

He hated to admit it, but she had grown on him with her small glances and nervous hair fiddling. However, he had managed to stay relatively distant to those feelings, but now, they'd become impossible to hide from.

Under his calm facade lie a turmoil of thoughts.

When Moriarty had made the threat against them– John, Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson– he had also felt a flash of fear. For them.

The past Sherlock Holmes hadn't been like this. The past Sherlock Holmes would never be like this.

He can't seem to decide whether he preferred his current self or past. Being care-less and emotionless certainly had its perks. He never had to worry what others thought or did, and his mind functioned exceptionally well with the help of a few cigarettes.

Now, he is burdened by people, by what he calls friends, although deep inside, he was honestly grateful for the companionship. As for the smoking, he had gone cold-turkey for a long while now.

Life without them now would be... insipid. Bland. There was a part of Sherlock that resented his dependency, but it was his own fault, not theirs. His own most grievous fault. He let himself go, let his feelings torrent through the thinking parts of his brain.

But he can't let them be harmed just because of their association with him. He can't allow it.

When Sherlock reopened his eyes, it was dark outside. The back of his mind wondered about where John went for all these hours, but he had a more pressing task at hand.

He called the number again, "Option one."

Moriarty offered a cold chuckle, "You are so predictable." He hanged up.


	4. The Pain of Not Knowing

"Sherlock Holmes! What the hell happened to you calling me when you were done?!" John's voice broke deep into Sherlock's peaceful slumber. He had taken a nap (which happens very rarely) on the couch when the man came in and shouted into his ears.

Sherlock opened his eyes, "You should be thanking me. Stayed over at Mary's, didn't you?"

"Yes," John admitted. "But nothing happened, trust me."

"I am sure," Sherlock said and shut his eyes again.

"Although I did ask her out for coffee... but that's all beside the point!" John threw his hands up in the air. "You SAID you were going to inform me when you are done. Instead you didn't even bother to shoot me a text, which would've taken a minute, and slept! How hard would that have been? And I didn't want to bother you, either."

"Well, I did help you 'get with' Mary, so I don't see the problem," Sherlock gave a smug grin.

"The problem is that you didn't keep your promise. That's what friends are suppose to do, keep their promises. I thought we went over this before?"

"Really? I must've deleted it." Sherlock murmured.

John bit back a reply and tried to calm himself, holding back from calling the man some colourful names.

"I assume you're curious about what happened last night? With the phone call?"

"Yes, tell me what Moriarty said."

"I can't. Sorry," Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock freaking Holmes," John clenched his teeth and took several deep breaths and forced out the words. "Are you asking to be punched? Because I will. You don't bring up that topic and refuse to talk about it."

"I promised Moriarty not to tell. Don't want to be off breaking promises and snarking. Aren't you the one who said that, maybe, a minute ago?"

He saw the fist coming.

* * *

"You didn't have to personally come in, you know," Molly smile at Sally Donovan, who was standing right beside her bed.

They had been friends for a long while, long before she had ever met Sherlock, and it bothered her when they said horrible things about each other and fought, which they do fairly often. In fact, every time they met.

"No, no, I had to. This is big news!" Sally grinned. "Molly Hooper, look at you, finally getting over that big prick of a detective. This is brilliant!"

Molly rolled her eyes and laughed, "No need for this to be dramatic, and it hasn't happened yet, you know. I've just... decided to. I need help from the best."

"I honestly do not understand what you saw in him," Sally shook her head.

"He's smart," she protested.

"First step to getting over Sherlock: stop defending him and his flaws," Sally said. "Trust me, he has plenty of flaws. He's extremely dogmatic, desne, annoying, unable to express his feelings right, hideous–"

"He's not hideous," Molly cuts in.

"Okay, fine," Sally admitted. "He might even be relatively attractive, but it's all in the spirit of making you see how horrible he really is."

"So how is Toby?" Molly asked, referring to her tabby cat, whom Sally has been taking care of in her absence.

"He's fine. A bit anxious, but fine. And he's getting a bit chubby, actually, since I've been feeding him my leftovers, but don't change the subject."

"Sorry," Molly said, which was just instinctive, and not really true, then she realised something. "When I am released from Barts, I have to go share a flat with him and John! And I doubt that is in the getting-over-him regime."

"Why in the world do you have to share a flat with him? What's wrong with your flat?"

"Nothing, nothing's wrong with my flat, it's Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. He's in the government, who is investigating the whole shooting thing, and he says it will be much safer when there's someone to apparently 'keep an eye on me', which is completely unnecessary, but he thinks it is."

"Don't worry, don't worry, we can turn this situation around, we just have to look on the bright side," Sally smiled mischievously. "What is, let's just say, you were to steal his thumbs, or whatever other body parts he keeps around and throw them away? That will make him pissed."

"I'd rather not. Have you seen the man? He'd know it was me in the first five minutes."

Sally shrugged.

There came a knock at her hospital room door, and Ben's voice blared out from behind, "Hey, Molly, I got you some coffee again." He cracked open the door a tiny bit and saw her with Sally. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, no, I was just about to leave," Sally waved him in. She leaned down and whispered to Molly, "And step two is finding someone else to replace him in your heart." She left with a wink.

Molly rolled her eyes and told her, "Take care of Toby!" and invited Ben inside.

"Thought you might want some company. Hospitals are usually terribly boring."

"Yes, yes, tell me about where you've been, where you've traveled to, since you are, as Sherlock so informed all of us, a travel blogger."

"Oh, there was this really funny story about..." Ben then proceeded to tell her about the time when his car had broken down in the near proximity of a pride of lions in Africa.

* * *

"Sherlock, Lestrade says that they've got a case for you. A murder," John said. They've both semi-calmed down after the initial brawl (well actually, John punched Sherlock and he didn't defend himself) and they're both on speaking terms again. "It's one of the homeless," he added, talking about the Homeless Network.

He stood up swiftly, "Was there anything on the body? Something unusual? Numbers, letters, anything?"

"They didn't say, but the body is only two blocks down from here, that way," John pointed.

"The game has been set in motion, then," Sherlock muttered quietly to himself while putting on his Belstaff coat. It was particularly cold outside– the wind howling and snow swirling from the sky.

"Game?" John inquired. After he had slugged Sherlock in the face, they'd come to a compromise where he was informed that Moriarty had planned something, but wasn't told any details or the fact that it was a game of some sort. "Don't tell me this is like the time when I almost got blown up at that pool. That game was particularly enjoyable for me."

"Moriarty has too much free time on his hands," Sherlock mused.

"Do you find this amusing? Because it seems like you do, Sherlock, and that worries me quite a lot."

"I am wounded by that assumption," Sherlock said and stepped out the door, putting on his scarf as he did so. "Believe it or not, I share many feelings that normal people might possess. But forgive me if I express them differently than most would do."

John looked skeptical.

Sherlock sighed and stepped out onto the sidewalk, "Please, John, rest assure that I am distraught about this, just as you are."

"So what is this about a game?"

"Part of the deal with Moriarty. Made an agreement that I can't tell you," Sherlock could see the police cars now with their flashing headlights, further down the road.

"And what would happen if you do tell me?"

"I'm sure you know," Sherlock turned and looked at John, face blank. "The spy films that you've inevitably seen before, when they were forced to perform a task of some sort–"

"–they were usually threatened with the death of loved ones," John finished his sentence.

"Except this time, it's real. And my 'loved ones' aren't the only ones that might die."

"Are you saying I'm one of your loved ones?" John attempted a joke, trying to lighten the mood. "You really shouldn't say that out loud, there's a chance of the tabloids picking that up. And don't forget about Mary hearing about this, she'll flip."

"In a purely platonic way, John," Sherlock said exasperatedly.

"Which is, I'm sure, not the word you'd describe your feeling for Molly Hooper?" John smirked. "Don't try to deny it."

"We should really move on to another topic of conversation. Actually, it'd be best for us to stop conversing at all and let me think in peace."

"Look, Sherlock, why are you even bothering to keep that promise? If you could call it a promise, that is. I mean, he won't know, right?"

"Won't put it past him. Actually, I sincerely doubt that he's not watching us right now, at this moment," Sherlock glanced up suspiciously at the street surveillance cameras.

"What did he say to you, exactly?" John asked.

"'And I'm pretty sure neither John or anyone else needs to hear about our conversation. Ciao!' is what he said," Sherlock quoted.

John thought for a moment, "What if I were to guess it? Like charades or pictionary or something? He never said that you can't confirm my suspicions or guesses."

"That would be bending the rules, but that's what people in court often do, so I don't see the problem with that."

John fired several guesses, and Sherlock confirmed some and discarded others, until after several minutes, he had a good general idea of the whole situation.

"Now I am convinced as ever that Jim Moriarty is a madman. He's a psychopath!"

"Hmmm," Sherlock grunted in agreement.

Lestrade finally noticed them and waved the two over, "Sherlock, John! Over here. The victim is named Carl Wiggins, and he–"

Sherlock pushed past him towards the mutilated body in between two buildings, "Yes, i can see the rest for myself. He's nineteen, very bright, had a small cold when he was killed, which was approximately a couple of hours before." He glanced up at John. "Helped me on several occasions."

"You know him?" Lestrade followed.

"Yes, yes, a very valuable member of the homeless network... Moriarty wants to destroy my support."

"What's Moriarty got to do with this? Is he the one who committed this?" the Detective Inspector asked.

"Long story," Sherlock knelt down and examined the body. "His organs are all taken out. And there is a spoon left in the chest cavity... Why didn't you inform me of this?"

"I thought you would liked to have examined him yourself," Lestrade shrugged.

Sherlock ignored him, strapped on latex gloves, and picked up the spoon, turning it around and perusing the reflections and dents. "Stainless steel. Regular dining spoon. I'm guessing this is the clue..."

"Would you like to inform me of what clue you're talking about?"

"Books," Sherlock whirled around and stepped back onto the sidewalk. "I need some. Four in particular by Thomas Harrison."

"What are you going off about?" Lestrade frowned. He turned to John, "What is he going off about?"

John shrugged and saw that Sherlock already called a cab, "Hey, wait up!"

"No, this one is for me. Take the next one and go to every library in London and check out all the books by Thomas Harrison. I'm going to all the bookstores."

"Why?!"

"Can't you see?" Sherlock said. "Thomas Harrison is the author of the Hannibal Lecter books. He's a cannibal. Probably the most well-known cannibal, albeit being a fictional character. Spoon, organs taken out, Moriarty is sending me a message. Something to do with Hannibal Lecter, I'm sure of it. Now go!"

* * *

Meanwhile, blocks away in St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Molly Hooper is sitting on her hospital bed, chatting with Ben, clueless about it all.

Clueless about just how complicated and frustrating Sherlock is going to make her life.


	5. The Odd and the Odder

**A/N: Woohoo, thank goodness for summer vacation! And what better way to celebrate than to update?**

It was eight at night, and 221B Baker Street was filled to the brim, packed, or whatever verb one might use to describe it, with every book that includes Hannibal Lecter that has ever been published.

Sherlock has been sitting in his chair for well over four hours, perusing every single page of the books as if it might hold a secret or a code (which there is a strong possibility of).

"How do you know the clue is in a book? You know, it could be in a movie about Hannibal Lecter. Or even that new TV series that just came out on NBC, I think," John mentioned, recalling it from when he was channel surfing.

There was a thump as Sherlock threw the book he was examining onto the coffee table as he scowling profusely, "Why didn't you inform me of this earlier?"

"Really? You didn't know? I just assumed that you knew of them and just decided it was in a book with your deduction prowess. You're usually like that, not telling people your train of thought unless prompted and acting all mysterious and pretentious."

"I am not like that. Just pretentious. And now it seems that I need to acquire a Netflix account and watch them all," Sherlock gave him one last glower and pulled out his laptop. "The clue could be in any one of them..."

"Isn't that a bit excessive? I mean, there has to be something that narrows the search down."

"No."

"And maybe you should eat something," John stood up and walked over to the fridge. "Instead of all that cruddy coffee that you're drinking. Which, I am surprised you are not running around with a caffeine high."

"Eating's not important right now, John!" Sherlock barked. "I need to find this clue before the week ends, or someone else is going to be killed next week."

"You can't compromise your own health in doing so," John reprimanded.

"My health has been compromised before in worse ways than abstaining from food," Sherlock said absentmindedly, referencing his previous cocaine and nicotine addiction. "This might be the best state that it has been in for a long while."

"I have a hard time believing that," the door to the flat creaked open and a woman's voice called out. "You looked much better the last time we had a chat. Lost a lot of weight, haven't you, Sherlock?"

John whipped around in shock, while Sherlock sat, uncaring, still scrolling through Netflix.

Irene Adler walked in. No, it was more of a sashay, actually.

"You? The– the woman? Aren't you... dead?" John stuttered, and stood up with a start. "Mycroft said you were."

"Should have locked the door, John," Sherlock murmured, and clicked on the film The Silence of the Lambs. "And clearly she is not dead if she is standing right there. Take some time to think things through next time, instead of asking redundant questions. A more appropriate field of inquiry would be what is she doing here when I told her to stay in America and don't return to London in exchange for me saving her."

Irene smiled crookedly, "Ah, I missed your rants, Mr. Holmes. And don't think I'm here for just a visit, because I actually have serious business to attend to."

"Which is?"

"It's a message. From Moriarty. My job is to inform you on what it is as for the fact that he doesn't like to do the dirty work himself."

The man suddenly perked up and spun around. He stood up slowly and approached the dominatrix, towering over her by several inches, "What has he offered you as payment that enticed you to risk the danger of coming back?"

"A new identity. A new life. A chance to start over here in the city I love. But that's all irrelevant. The message is as follows," Irene took a deep breath and said as if quoting from a script, imitating Moriarty with surprising accuracy, " 'I'm disappointed, I'm _disappointed_, Sherlock! I told you _specifically_ not to inform Dr. Watson or anyone else of our game, yet you still did. But did you listen?!' "

"Hey, wait a minute, I _guessed_ correctly. He never told me directly. And Moriarty never said anything against guessing," John protested.

" 'Same difference. Please don't think you can try and bend the rules on my watch,' " Irene recited the whole thing like a speech. Like Moriarty had predicted their replies (which is likely) and crafted responses for them beforehand for The Woman to say.

" 'So I am calling off our game.' "

There was a visible sign of relief as Sherlock let out a slow, steady breath. Although he would never admit it, Moriarty pulled a strong front, and he didn't know how long the game would've went on, and how many innocent people would've died, "I don't see you as the kind of person who would abandon such an endeavor right in the middle."

" 'But wait! I'm not finished!' " Irene continued, reciting her lines. " 'We still have to play, or else how will I get entertained? Boredom makes me do crazy things, like perhaps blowing up a city just for the fun of it. This time, you will receive _specific_ sets instructions over a period of time that you MUST follow on all counts, or else I_ will_ carry out my threats."

"Why isn't he carrying out his threats this time?" John turned to Sherlock, muttering quietly.

Apparently Moriarty had anticipated that response, too, because Irene answered, " 'Because I get bored. _God_, do you people _ever _listen? If I lose my leverage, you won't play with me. And Sherlock, you are the best distraction. The best one of them all. Some might call it an obsession, but you can't trust doctors.'"

"And I presume you are going to tell us the first set of instructions?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Irene.

"Yes," she answered and took out a sheet of white printer paper with two paragraphs on it. "You, Sherlock Holmes, will be required to clean up your flat _very nicely_ in preparation for the arrival of Molly Hooper tomorrow (although she is not currently in any form of danger, that is, if you precisely follow these directions, but you will act like she is to pose as a reason for her to move in. Why, you ask? I can't teeelll you!)"

"There should be no need to drag Molly Hooper into your schemes."

"Wait, there's more," Irene said and continued. "You are also required to buy her a dozen roses (of your own preferred colour) and present them to her as a 'coming home' present when bringing her back to Baker Street this afternoon from the hospital. And John, yes, you have your instructions, too. You are to get off your butt and find a full-time job at St. Barts."

"A job? Why does he care about my occupations?" John spat.

"And that's the end of it," Irene said nonchalantly. "It's really been nice conversing with the two of you, but I must leave now. Remember, Mr. Holmes, I'm always free if you'd like to have dinner." She winked and strolled out with a wave.

"You're letting her just– go?" John turned to Sherlock. "What if she knew where Moriarty was? She probably does, or how else could she have received the message to deliver? Should we inform Mycroft of this?"

"No, no, Moriarty is cleverer than that. I doubt Irene has ever even seen his face. And I would much prefer to keep my insufferable, arrogant brother out of this."

"Well, what is he trying to accomplish here? You and Molly and me getting a job? This is too... mundane."

"He's trying to play god..." Sherlock massaged his eyes. "And we can't halt him because he does have the upper hand with the bombs that he has managed to attain. The only way we can stop this all is to find him. But wouldn't that be simple? Trying to search for the location of a criminal mastermind without any leads. Very plausible." He said the last part sarcastically, but then seemed to grow optimistic. "But then again, I mustn't forget the fact that I, too, am a mastermind. I am just like him, I need to think like him to find him. And I can't fail, because people's lives are at the stake."

"When did you turn so sentimental?" John turned skeptical.

"It's not sentiment. Morality would be a more acceptable term. But believe when I tell you that I do not desire to put you, Molly, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson in the way of harm."

"You, know that was actually really nice, Sherlock."

"Now please shut up, John, I need to think," he closed his eyes in concentration.

"You ruined the moment."

* * *

Molly Hooper is definitely going insane or hallucinating. This can't be happening. What _is_ this? Sherlock Holmes– who really doesn't give two cruds about anyone– is giving her flowers?

The dozen of roses were blue (coloured artificially, she's guessing, since they are not genetically possible in nature), and he looked utterly uncomfortable while gifting them to her.

This was so strange.

"Are you quite alright, Sherlock?" She pushed, not sure whether he was being serious or not. "You seem very... not yourself."

"I am perfectly fine, Molly. As you can see, I am not currently suffering from any physical ailments. And that phrase "not yourself" is absolutely ridiculous and absurd, because whichever way someone acts at the current moment will no doubt set the standard of being 'themselves', so technically, you cannot be anyone BUT yourself."

"Annd you're back," Molly said.

"I never left the whole time I was present here."

"Again, a figure of speech," Molly gave him a look.

"I know," Sherlock smirked. "That was suppose to be a joke. Just trying to brighten up the conversation, which you seem rather ill at ease to be in." Molly attempted a faint laugh while he continued, "Now let's leave St. Barts. You will need time to settle in and get used to Baker Street."

"Did you ever find out what happened to the girl who shot me? And why Moriarty wanted me dead?" Molly said bluntly.

Sherlock thought for a moment before answering. On one hand, if he tells her the truth– that the girl is probably dead– she would feel a more imminent sense of danger and would be more cooperating with the move to 221B temporarily, for the fear of her safety, which as Moriarty says, she has no reason to be fearful for, but he needed a plausible reason to make her believe that she needs to stay. Or else he would break the instructions on the first day, and that would not do. On the other hand, if he lies to appease her delusion that the girl might have been alive or escaped, she would be less perturbed and less emotionally unstable.

"She is most likely dead."

"Oh," her face fell.

"Is it a social etiquette to say 'I'm sorry' right now?" Sherlock questioned. "As one would normally do so in the circumstances of someone passing?"

"Not like this..."

"Why are you upset?"

"Because she deserved something better than that. She deserves to live right now. She was forced to kill me because she was just trying to buy herself time. Now the girl is dead because I'm... not," Tears welled up in Molly's eyes and a drop rolled down her cheek.

"You think that this is your fault? You think her life is worth more than yours?" Sherlock cocked his head, slightly bewildered at her reactions. She wasn't usually this emotional and straightforward. Maybe the whole almost-losing-one's-life scenario changed people's outlooks and personalities.

"No, I think our lives are worth the same," she answered. "But no one else seems to believe that. They think just because she attempted a felonious crime that she's less than a full human being. They don't want to think that humans are capable of these abhorrent acts, so they look upon criminals as less than themselves. Well, I'm not going to make that mistake.

"I see no reason not to believe that. I am perfectly capable of grasping the fact that humans are competent enough to achieve acts of this severity," Sherlock reassured her. There was a brief moment as he was a bit touched by how passionate she was about the whole subject, and the fact she forgave so easily. He pushed away that feeling and told himself it would not help the current situation. It's better right now to look at things from a logical point of view.

"I'm sorry," Molly took a deep breath. "I'm acting really emotional and I know you don't like feelings and tears and things like that."

Sherlock stepped closer, "Why does everyone believe I'm incapable of the most basic thing that make us humans– emotion? I told this to John and I tell it to you now: I feel things (how can I not?), many, but they usually build their homes solely within the confines of my mind, unlike the majority of people, and on an occasion when they do shine through, it's through unorthodox manners and not what people are used to."

"I'm sorry," Molly apologised again and took a step back, but then mentally chastised herself for being like this. _Get youself together_, she chided in her mind. _Don't let him think I'm a blubbering idiot_.

"No need to apologise," Sherlock said and continued walking until they had finally left the building and hailed a cab. He informed the driver of their destination.

"Wait," Molly interrupted. "I need to go to my flat and pack my things. Like clothes and such."

"I did that for you beforehand. Right now, most of your versatile belongings are loaded inside a suitcase in the spare room in Baker Street. By the way, you should really keep your spare key in a less conspicuous place than a flower pot."

Molly blushed at the thought of Sherlock being in her flat without any type of supervision, sifting through her possessions. She turned even redder as she realised he probably had to pack her underthings.

"I suppose you are embarrassed at the thought of me seeing your undergarments?" He predicted.

Molly didn't answer, but her face was enough to tell Sherlock that he was correct.

"Don't worry," Sherlock chuckled. "I am not an immature primary school boy who is callow enough to talk about this in such a manner."

Molly nodded, still a bit flustered, and leaned back into her seat, then remembered, "We have to get Toby!"

"Toby?"

"My cat. He's at Sally's right now."

"Of course, I should've known. You clearly owned a feline from the cat hairs in your flat and the handful of catnip toys, but I did not realise that its name is Toby," Sherlock rambled. "By Sally, are you referring to the one and only Sally Donovan who works under Lestrade?"

"Yes...?" Molly ventured, knowing that it would not go too well if they are to meet face-to-face.

"And would you consent if I had said to just leave the cat at her flat? Because I would do anything to avoid a confrontation, and believe when I say that there would be one if I were to show up at her front door."

"No."

Sherlock sighed, "I see from your expression that Toby is clearly very dear to you, so I will put aside my loathing for that woman for the time being so we may retrieve your cat."

The last time Molly saw Sherlock, he was a complete arse, and now this? This whole niceness felt like a fake, or perhaps a hallucination. Maybe one of her pain medications that the nurses had given to her. It's probably just her imagination that's making her think the day she decides to overcome her foolish love for him is the one when he suddenly decides to act so courteous and obliging.

She really needs to get over him.

**A/N: I read somewhere that blue roses stand for the unattainable and the seemingly impossible. So Sherlock is feeling a bit doubtful about himself with both Molly and Moriarty and conveying that through roses. How classy. I also felt like Irene deserves a place in this story. She adds a bit of spice to things. :)**

**The next update might take a while, because I need to plan out which direction I want to take the story in, so stay tuned and keep deducing!**

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and for Black Diamon07 and cassielouwho**** for bringing to my attention about the previous chapter breaks not showing up.**


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